Operation Exodus
by mandaree1
Summary: A 'what if' in which Operation Exodus went off without a hitch, and Huey and Uncle Rukus both successfully escape the country, only to return months later.


**Disclaimer: I don't own The Boondocks**

**Title: Operation Exodus**

**Summary: A 'what if' in which Operation Exodus went off without a hitch, and Huey and Uncle Rukus both successfully escape the country, only to return months later.**

**...**

In his bag he had gas money, clothing, nonperishable food, a couple water bottles, a fake, but well made, passport, a signed doctors note that stated he was a midget instead of a ten year old boy (The doctor in question had been an older gentleman, one with poor eyesight that refused to get the proper eyewear necessary to do his job properly. A few days after his visit, he came to work to find a box with said eyewear nestled inside), a few of Riley's guns (his least favorite ones- he wouldn't complain _to_ much about losing those), a few small knives, his favorite pair of nun-chucks, and a few books. Thankful for his natural aptitude for packing, as well as his time-given ability to hide weapons in places no one would look, he sat on his porch and waited for the arrival of his ride.

It wasn't his first time fleeing the country. Being a 'domestic terrorist'- _revolutionary_, he corrected the government, police, and anyone else who dared call him that to his face- he was one of the first people suspected for any type of government crime, and, therefore, he was also the first they would haul off for questioning in, well, he wasn't quite sure where. It depended on the case. Either way, it had always been in his interest to leave the country when things got to hot, then return when the blame was shifted closer to the true suspect and off of him.

Rukus, however, had never left the states. He loved the country to much, and got to many kicks out of sneering at minorities, to leave and go to a place dominated by said minorities. 'A place with no white men', he'd said once, whilst they were looking over the maps he'd dug out of the closest, 'is a place I'd rather die then set foot in.' And while said ideals and closed-mindless annoyed him greatly, he knew deep in his heart that he had- and always would be- that way, and nothing anyone could say or do would change that. It didn't matter in the end, after all, they were splitting up after they crossed the border into Canada. He could listen to him for that long without killing him... he hoped. Well, he didn't really hope, hope was irrational, but you got the point.

The rusty vehicle pulled up on the side of the driveway. Uncle Rukus gave him a slightly disgusted look, a look that his face showed normally, before gesturing with a beefy arm towards the car seat next to him. The seat and surrounding area had been covering with plastic wrap, a fact that didn't shock him in the slightest. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, he was a bit surprised that Rukus was letting him sit up front. Maybe, in his paranoia to leave before the newest president was inaugurated, he had forgotten that, in the old days, black people sat in the back of buses, or maybe he didn't apply that to vehicles. More likely, however, was that the man just didn't have enough plastic wrap to cover the back interior of his vehicle and had instead been forced to improvise. Either way, the gesture was touching in a strange way (he could've just stuck him in the trunk, after all), and while he didn't show it in words, he made sure to only touch things that were wrapped as a thank you to the man driving. The money was in a plastic bag, to help ease his nerves about touching anything he touched, and he'd made sure not to touch the bills with his bare hands. Rukus seemed pleased with his own gesture of consideration (because he was Huey Freeman; and Huey Freeman_ didn't do_ nice, so it was considerate), but made no comment either and instead quietly pulled out of the curb and down the street, but not before he gave the house one last glance and a sigh.

Conversation was nonexistent throughout the trip. Rukus seemed unable to speak, as though he were choked up, as he drove on, and he, never being one to associate with the enemy, instead concentrated on reading and working out the new variables in any possible plans he might have in the future now that he was relocating permanently. (He doubted he'd ever put them into action, he was 'retired' after all, but planning was one of his favorite pastimes, one he indulged in often.) After crossing the border into Canada, the man was forced to pull over the vehicle to cry. Not one to comfort, and well aware that any comfort he could give would be rejected by the racist elder currently sobbing into his hands, he respectfully kept his gaze turned away from him to give him a moment of privacy and stared back at the border currently staring back at him.

Hours later, they finally began to move on, and he watched as the border-line became smaller and smaller before disappearing entirely, and only then did he finally turn back to his books. Rukus, in a surprising show of kindness, dropped his off at the nearest airport with a grunt. He easily slipped through the airport security and onto the plane, and, he decided as he watched the runway disappear from his sight, it would be the last time he ever pulled it off. He was done with hiding then coming back with his tail between his legs. No, from that moment on, he renounced his American citizenship. Never again would he set foot in Woodcrest.

He swore it.

* * *

He was officially a hypocrite. And while that might be a good thing, depending on whatever future occupation he researched for, it made him feel like an idiot. And he hated feeling stupid.

He sighed, slumping against the bench. It was one thing to flee a country, he decided, it was another to be forced out. He had no home, very little knowledge on the language (he spoke formal, but informal had always been hard for him), and no money. Put that together with a few missions he'd undertaken (he was retired, damnit, but no one seemed to realize that, and he had a hard time refuses missions when they were for the right cause) with very.. _persistent_ federal agents now scouring the country for him, it seemed to be in his best interest to leave and let things cool down. Slipping through the airport had been a bit more difficult, as well as embarrassing, as it had been before, especially considering he was only a few months out of practice, but he'd made it. Now came the 'fun' part; hitchhiking his ass home.

A large, rather overweight man stalked up to him. He ignored him, hiding his face in his book. There was plenty of room on the bench, or, if he thought he was too good for a rickety old bench, then he could always stand. No skin off his nose. Or any part of his body, honestly.

Instead of doing the polite thing (like any other sensible human being on the planet would've), the man instead grabbed his shoulder and pushed him onto the ground. Having not expected the gesture, he fell easily, but quickly made sure that his book wasn't crushed. "Get outta my way, boy! Don't chu got any common sense? This bench is for the good, _white,_ people to use, not creatures like yourself." Brushing the bottom off as though it had grime on the surface from his presence there moments before, he sunk down into the now empty seat with a sigh. "Now that's the stuff."

Recognizing the voice (as well as the insults), he finally looked up. As expected, under the hat and high collar shirt, Uncle Rukus was sitting in front of him, as hateful as ever. "Rukus?"

"Eh?" He turned an eye toward the one he pushed over and studied him for a moment. A glimmer of realization shone in his bulging eye, before disappearing. "Huey? What the hell are you doing back in this fine country?"

"I could ask you the same thing." He grunted, sitting up. He didn't bother attempting to regain his seat (he forgot his nun-chucks in the airport bathroom. Again. He'd have to ask one of his contacts to pick them up from lost and found later), and instead closed his book and set it in his lap. "I thought you was gonna go live in Norway."

"I was, I was." He agreed, nodding his head repeatedly. "But, after awhile, I began to miss America. This was the place I was born, the place I've lived, and the place I hope to die in. So, I thought over it for awhile, and I decided that I would come back. The new hooligan president may be destroying this country, but, I figure, I could live with that." He saluted, as though in front of a military caption. "I will proudly go down with my country. I bet _your kind_ wouldn't be able to say that with a straight face." Sneering, he quieted his voice when he realized it was beginning to rise a tad. "So, boy, what made you decide to come back and pollute this place further? Let me guess, you and your gangster, pant-sagging, hip-hop loving ways got you chased out of the country?"

"Uh... something like that." He coughed. "I got alittle homesick, is all."

"Tch. Whatever." He grunted, looking away.

The conversation lulled. He went back to his thoughts as Rukus went on to one of his rants. He tuned him out. It'd take a few days to get home, he decided, if he kept traveling along the route he'd mapped out. But, with no pillows or blankets (What? He'd been in a hurry.) to his name, nor any extra money to buy a room for himself for the nights, which left him with two choices. Ask his enemy for a pillow and blanket, or sleep on a bench. The bench creaked under the mans weight, and he vaguely heard a snap. His eyebrows rose in mild shock, then fell back into their traditional position. Well, sleeping on any bench the man had sat on was out, and they were on the same route... _damnit._

He sighed. "Rukus?"

"What?" He snapped, stopping mid-rant. "Were you even listening to me, boy!?"

He ignored the question. "If I sit in the back of the bus, will you buy me a blanket and pillow? I don't got anywhere to stay until we get back to Woodcrest."

"Why am I not surprised?" He sneered, before giving thought to what he'd been asked. "Hmm... And you won't talk to any of those great white men around you?"

"Right." Had it been two other people having this conversation, it wouldn't have gone this well. The person playing Rukus wouldn't have been that willing to buy him _anything_, and the person playing himself would've gotten offended by now and slugged the other person- preferably in the head or below the belt. However, this wasn't two other people. This was Uncle Rukus (no relation), a registered racist jackass, and he was Huey Freeman, a revolutionary with extensive fight skills, weapons, and little interest in showing emotion. It worked. How, he wasn't sure, but he didn't question it. It was one of those man-made miracles, he supposed.

"Well..." He considered his options, before slowly nodding. "Fine. But I ain't buying you a room! You can sleep on the floor. That's where you belong, you-" He tuned him out once again. Listening now, just when he got what he needed, wouldn't be go for his enemies health, and he needed the man_ alive_. For now, at least.

When the bus finally pulled up, he gathered his things without a word and climbed the steps. Buring his face in his book, he slowly walked down the isle, only stopping when his foot made contact with the back seat. He shifted to the left, turned around, before plopping down on the seat, all without saying a word. In the front row, Rukus smirked. He ignored him the rest of the way home.

It was late afternoon, early evening when they finally returned to the gated community of Woodcrest, days after the bus journey had began. The gates were sealed shut for the day. Rukus swore under his breath. "I'll just have to- Hey, boy, what do you think you're doing!?"

Paying him no mind, he easily slipped over the tall fence and onto the pavement below. "Thanks for the sleep stuff." Ignoring the shouts from behind him, he made his way down the familiar streets. Rukus would be found in the morning, and then he would be let in. They weren't collaborators anymore, so he had no need to help him. The man wouldn't have accepted his help anyway.

He paused at the doorstep. Should he walk in? Climb in a window? Borrow a cellphone from someone and call ahead? He shook his head, sighing, before hesitantly knocking on the door. He was doubtful anyone had even heard, until the door opened. Robort glanced at him, his bags, and his neutral expression. "You're finally back, I see. Good." He moved to the side so he had room to walk in. "Go unpack, and hurry. The dishes have been piling up."

"Alright, Grandad." Giving out no apologies or excuses, he instead drug his suitcase up the stairs and down the hall.

His half of the room, surprisingly enough, had been left alone. It was like an invisible barrier protected it; with Riley's side utterly filthy while his was pristine. He was thankful, seeing as if Riley _had_ messed with his stuff, he would've gotten into a fight with him, and he was in no mood for a fight. Riley was messing with the computer, rap music blaring out of his headphones. Not surprised in the least, he made his way past his bed and over to his own.

Finally taking notice of his presence, he pushed his headphones down to his shoulders. "You back, huh?"

"Yup." He set the bag beside the bed, to tired to bother with unpacking it.

"Good. I was starting to get rusty with my videogame skills; seeing how I didn't have nobody to practice with. You wanna go a round?"

"Tomorrow." He weakly promised, falling onto the bed. "By the way, Grandad wants you to do the dishes."

"Aww_ man_, you gotta be kiddin' me!?" Fuming, he stood and stomped down the hall. "Fine, but it's yer turn next time, you hear me!?"

Closing his eyes, he felt the twinge of a smile cross his lips. _It was good to be home_.

Even if coming back made him a hypocritical idiot.

**No flames! Don't like don't read! Review!**


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